


In French

by aliennaire (Dianaliennaire)



Category: Alien (1979), Alien Series, Aliens (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternative Perspective, Gen, Not Really Character Death, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Scary dreams that are not so scary, Science Fiction, Short, Short One Shot, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dianaliennaire/pseuds/aliennaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two dreams summation.<br/>Borrowed from French, the ending -naire means "from the family" (of that defining term, which is at the beginning of the word). I do not remember this precisely, writing from memory, French are warmly welcome to correct me :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In French

The sky is overspread with gloomy massive clouds and seems to be about to fall down to the ground with heavy never-ending rain. The pouring will last a week at least, there is no other way in this world. The main thing is to have enough time to skedaddle from here until the cold, biting to the bone shower unleashes. Here?

I am sitting on the roof of a skyscraper, nonchalantly dangling my legs over the edge of the parapet and leaning on wound back and turned away from myself palms, gripping the inner edge of the wide roof fence. This is an excellent vantage point over two courtyards – the small one is laid open just below me, and the large one is visible on the left - and the road underneath to the right. But the yard and the street are deserted, no movement. It's all because of them. Such as my companion, sitting on the right.

"Hey, take a look," - invigorates me his voice. I ease myself a little forward, strain my eyes and peer down. Spot on! Underneath, from the front door of my flat house, runs out a small group of people, five or six heads - I'm not an eagle to count them in such visibility from such a height. "To the right,"- say I, "To the left,"- corrects me my companion, and a bunch of morons crosses the small yard and turns towards the large one, hides around the corner of a multi-storied candle-like building, standing just in front of my skyscraper. I sigh in exasperation, echoes of screams and moans can be heard from around the corner beneath, but they quickly fell silent and forgotten.

"You are not sorry for them at all, are you?"- reveals his interest the one sitting around. I click my tongue and shake my head: "For that frigging way they tend to write and film sometimes, I already want to see all the characters quickly killed off and this nonsense ended". "It's cruel" - says my interlocutor. I snigger ironically: "Look, who's talking." A group of people shows up out of the entrance, another one of those have already been organised, counting about five for this day rolling into the evening. "Where?"- asks my collocutor. Raising my eyebrows reproachfully, I turn to face him. What is the point to argue with a mind-reader? Yet in addition to his unusual abilities, my companion also looks ... weird. He is two-something meters tall, he is skinny and black.

He has also got six fingers and toes, gloss-glistening chitinous cover with corrugated muscle tubes, external ribs in the chest, elegantly bent over-shoulder arches and polished kneecap joints. He is sitting in profile, having the nearest to me leg folded under himself and the other one flexed with the knee lifted up, that allows me to discern his dorsal tubes, spikes, elongate serrated with a sharp tip tail and, of course, his head. The simulation of a phallus with a ribbed surface on top what indicates, that he is a more mature being in relation to others of his family, galloping below in the yards and streets of the city.

"Are you aware they discussed the possibility of developing intelligence, screenwriters with the director?"- having overheard my thoughts, he says, confidentially lowering his face over my shoulder, as if he were physically able to say the words in my ear. I roll my eyes up. Of course, I know that.

Something cold and viscous covers my bare shoulder. I turn my head sharply and notice whitish slime dripping from his lower outer jaw. He turns away to strike his noble and upright pose, when I'm trying to rub clean his secretion, bedaubing the shoulder and smearing my left hand. The ooze hangs on my hand, the part of it shakes off, coming unstuck, still, some remains hanging down in threads and clots. Without hesitation, I spread the leftovers on his left shoulder. He does not move: "Thanks. It's a reflex, you get it, when in contact with the proteinous."

The wind rises, I glance at the sky, resolve: "How much longer will we be seated here? What are we waiting for? "He remains motionless. Except for his tail. The jagged tail, helically wrapped around him passing around the vertically set leg and the back, begins to unfold, creeps in my direction and its tip poises on a level with my right temple, "You ought to give up your story." I, leaning back and noticing, as the end of its tail is moving synchronously against my temple: "Why would I?" I inch forward, but he inexorably mimics my futile attempts to dodge: "Thoughts are material, you know."

I roll my face towards him, the point of his tail looks me in the nose bridge, I impart in defiance: "In fact, the story is already written, I just can not think up a name." The tail retreats and, embracing its master, lies down on his lap. His voice might have seemed interested: "And what is the hitch with the name?" I sigh: "I want something short, succinct and in one word. I thought to take She-Alien, but it sounds and looks buckled in the original language..." He interrupts: "It's amazing how fond you are of limiting yourselves if not by rules, then by languages. Try French."

I snicker, eye him and then avert my gaze down. Exactly at that moment to gain sight of the flock of his relatives underneath sweeping across the small courtyard with rapid springs on all four limbs and flying into the entrance of my skyscraper. Have they really mowed down everyone in the city and there is nobody else to hunt after? And another question, whether will my interlocutor defend me? But he sticks by his guns: "Or you can try hybrids - legionnaire, questionnaire». For a moment I get distracted from the thoughts of my personal apocalypse: "And it might work." My companion starts unfolding, straightens his tail, flattens his knees out, stretches and stands up: "So try it." I have no choice but to go up after him on the roof. parapet He holds out his hand to me, I extend mine towards him, but instead of a shake he easy and adroitly pushes me over the edge of the roof fence outside.

I do not have time to feel the sense of falling or get frightened or notice the building which I am diving along. And I absolutely do not feel pain, when the hard paving surface bumps into me. I can not move, but the cracks and fissures of the grey walkway are seen clearly. One moment - total blackness covers everything. The next moment – there is again a view of the grey asphalt pavement. Then - oblivion.

Once awake, I write down «aliennaire».

This is the name of my fanfiction and the pseudonym I use on the thematic discussion boards.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt on AO3 :-)  
> Feedback is more than welcome,  
> Many thanks in advance!  
> PS. I guess I've got to update summary and notes as soon as I get accustomed to the Archive...


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